


Another Guest for Mr. Spider

by Dribbledscribbles



Category: The Magnus Archives
Genre: Because goddamn it that man deserves some revenge, Don't worry Jon gets some very apropos payback in the end, I quite literally took the plot from a nightmare I had after re-listening to A Guest for Mr. Spider, Last hurrah before Season 5 kills me, Other, To those of you who read my stuff for soft-apocalypse and friendship stories, it is Horror with a Capital H(oly shit), this one is very much not that, tw arachnophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dribbledscribbles/pseuds/Dribbledscribbles
Summary: Jon isn't eating his statements like he should.Mr. Spider doesn't like it.
Comments: 49
Kudos: 323





	Another Guest for Mr. Spider

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

( _Sighs, tired and flat._ ) If she can do it, so can I, if she can do it, so can I. ( _Another sigh, centering._ )

Been on—ha—‘vacation’ about three days now. Two more left. Just a little experiment I want to try, see if—if cold turkey really is an option. Went on a bit of a kid-in-the-candy-store spree beforehand. Got all the old favorites for the pantry. Every deliciously unhealthy snack I could think of, even grabbed a box of Kinder eggs. Haven’t had one since, what? High school? Back before acne scared me off them. Considering the state of my skin these days, though, I don’t think I’ve got room left for any kind of vanity. 

[RUSTLE OF PLASTIC WRAPPER, THE SOUND OF A MOSTLY-FULL SODA CAN SET ON A TABLE.] 

All stuff that needed a microwave at most to prepare. Nothing even resembling a responsible bit of produce. Just quick, easy junk. My favorites.

What used to be my favorites. I thought, I thought maybe the reason everything before now tasted the way it did was a matter of my preferences changing. I was more eager for a statement than I was for a sandwich or a salad. And it’s not like I was going out to anyplace especially appetizing, either. I was just putting food in my mouth because that was what I was supposed to do when I wasn’t having a statement. Didn’t really care what it was, just as long as I was getting the chore of chewing and swallowing something out of the way. But after…

After the little heart-to-heart with everyone about my…my hunting, and the thing with Annabelle, I…

[SHIFTING SOUNDS, SINKING INTO A COUCH.] 

I got to really examining myself. What did and didn’t count as making me feel ‘full.’ And you know what I did? I went three days without eating anything. Only ever broke for a sip of something—tea, coffee, water, whatever—just for when I started feeling parched. But did I even need that much? Do I need to drink anything to wet my throat when I know my body can just shrug off building collapses and knives? If I had just sat at my desk the whole time, would the dry feeling have just…stopped?

I’ve even—

( _A small noise of embarrassment mingled with muttered gibberish, its tone asking why the hell he is admitting this aloud._ ) I’ve been keeping track of when I need the, ah, facilities. The short of it is, I haven’t needed to. At all. I shower, I brush my teeth, and that’s it. What food I have been eating just doesn’t seem to go anywhere. I’m looking at my stomach now, and you know what it looks like? It looks like there is no stomach. There’s just my ribs—such as they are—and this, this huge dip in the middle where there should be stomach and intestines and all the rest. I’m not sure if there’s anything there.

And I’m hungry. I’ve been forcing as much of this cholesterol-and-calorie mountain down my throat as possible, and I am still starving. No growl of a stomach, not even a, a pain anywhere in my gut, but it is absolutely, unequivocally hunger I’m feeling. And you know what?

I think I could have stocked up on thirty boxes of oatmeal, mixed it with potting soil, and got the same result as far as taste goes. Yeah. Nothing but wall-to-wall sugar and salt, and it tastes just as much like nothing as everything else. But…

[PLASTIC RUSTLES AGAIN. SODA CAN IS TAPPED.] 

I mean, the fact that I can eat is something, isn’t it? The fact that I’m—I’m abstaining from the ‘meal’ I really want is something. I think. Because, well, D-Daisy is managing, isn’t she? She’s not in the best shape, but she’s not on death’s doorstep. She’s actively ignoring the Hunt. Staying in place. Not getting her hackles up, giving it any foothold on her. And she’s been living with it for most of her life. 

( _Snort._ ) I’ve only had this whole Archivist mess on my shoulders for a blink compared to that. Which means, theoretically, I’ve got some kind of window of opportunity left. Even if I did make…some sort of deal in the coma. There wasn’t exactly any kind of contract involved, was there? Just a choice. Die or don’t die. Or, worse, I could still be in that—that—

Anyway. I chose the option that let me live without looking at the fine print, if there was any. But now I am living with those terms and conditions and much as I…much as I wanted to abide by them during the—m-my hunts, I never like that I hunted in the first place. I know, too little too late, five times over, but the fact that the Eye is even permitting me to feel this guilt means something. Helen called it ‘seasoning,’ and maybe that’s all it is, but it feels like an opportunity. Even if a very thin one. 

I can undo this. I can rescind the deal, I think. I’ve said before that it felt like wasting away, that I do not want to die. And I don’t. I really don’t. Ha, no more than I want to gouge my eyes out to quit my job. What I want is to be in my office, tearing through the Archives on a binge. Or, better yet, on the street, gorging on whatever paranormal trauma crosses my path. I admit that. I know these things about myself and will not pretend otherwise.

And the fact that I do still fear and hate these things about me means I can do the right thing. I can stop myself. And I will because it needs to happen. I need to be stopped before whatever plans I am apparently so crucial to actually come to fruition. Simple as math.

( _Thin laugh._ ) You know, I think it’s helping to think of it like going to the dentist? No one likes going there. Nobody actually wants to get in that chair and have their mouth yanked open so someone can go around poking your gums with sharp metal. But people still do it, because it needs doing.

[SOFT RUSTLE AS PLASTIC WRAPPER IS OPENED.] 

I’ve been willing to die a few times before this, looking back. Would’ve let Michael do it if he’d had the chance. Then there was the Unknowing itself. The trip into the Buried. Hell, any number of chats with the other avatars could have gone much, much deadlier than they wound up. I knew that. I always knew, going in, and I was always so scared. I still am. But even if Elias is right about my Pandora complex urging me on, I also know that, deep down under the Jekyll-Hyde mix of cowardice and curiosity, I know—I hope—there is something resembling a good person. 

So. I’m going to try this. Cold turkey my way through the rest of my vacation, and as many weeks after it as I can. I doubt Peter Lukas is apt to fire me for sticking to mere organization rather than carrying on with my recording. It’ll be hell keeping myself from getting snagged by the words, ‘Statement of,’ over and over, but if I can apparently be stopped by a scarf in my teeth, I think I can manage if I just stick to gnawing pencils the whole time. I doubt the recorders would accept me saying,

( _Sound of biting onto something, perhaps a finger._ ) Say-ent ove Jonashin Sihs, regar-ing his new eeding habiss.

( _Sound of releasing whatever’s been bitten, only to take a real bite of something else. Chewing. Quick, unsavory gulp._ ) God, I can’t even taste the artificial blueberry in that. How can you not taste artificial blueberry? 

( _Sigh._ ) Anyway. Back to my point. I am going to wean myself off of Archival living as much as possible. No statements, no hunts, nothing but actual, solid food. Assuming this stuff even counts. It’s mass, at least, even if my scale declares otherwise. If I circle right back around to humanity, great. I get taken off the board as…whatever it is the Web and Elias and the Eye a-and whatever the hell else has got me picked out for their keystone. If not?

Well. I think Gerry may have been right. 

( _Sudden change in intonation, a perfect mimic of the late Gerard Keay._ ) Dying isn’t so bad. It’s staying dead that sucks.

( _Back to normal tone._ ) I had that choice laid out for me over the course of six months of dreaming. Even if I don’t remember it all, I know that the only part of me that was alive was my mind. And that it was pure horror, start to finish. I’ve wondered more than once now, if I shouldn’t have just…just…

( _Another small bite, a swallow._ ) I wish I could enjoy sleeping again. Just to have something to do between eating. But even that’s gone bad now. I’m so tired of this. I’m tired of being tired. Of being hungry. Of being here. 

[PLASTIC RUSTLES.] 

I wish this tasted like something. 

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[SOUNDS OF THE OUTDOORS IN A LULL. CARS DRIVE IN A FAR DISTANCE, NO VOICES. JUST FOOTSTEPS AND THE RUSTLE OF A FULL PLASTIC BAG. THERE’S A SMALL SOUND OF A SMARTPHONE BEING TYPED ON, THE CLICK-CLICK-CLICK OF A TEXT BEING MADE. OTHER FOOTSTEPS APPROACH.] 

ARCHIVIST

Ah!

[A HEAVY SLAB OF CARDBOARD HITS THE SIDEWALK. A JOSTLE OF COLLIDING BODIES MUFFLES IT A BIT.] 

Sh—ah, sorry, sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was—

???

Mm, quite alright.

[FOOTSTEPS CARRY ON.] 

ARCHIVIST

Huh. Oh. 

[SOFT SCRAPE AS SOMETHING WRAPPED IN PAPER IS PICKED UP, LIKELY THE DROPPED CARDBOARD SLAB.] 

Oh, wait, sir? Hey!

[FASTER FOOTSTEPS, RUSHING TO CATCH UP. THE PLASTIC BAG RUSTLES.] 

Hi, excuse me? Sir? I think you dropped this—

???

( _Mild surprise, less mild cheer._ ) So I did. Thank you. Would’ve been embarrassing to turn up at his door without it. I—wait. Don’t I know you from somewhere?

ARCHIVIST

I don’t think so? 

???

No, really, I’m sure of it. I think…did you happen to live in Bournemouth when you were little? Had glasses like saucers?

ARCHIVIST

( _Slightly pained, mostly resigned, overall curious._ ) I did. 

???

And the hair, you already had a little snow behind the ears when we first— ( _Sudden, delighted huff of a laugh._ ) Jonathan Sims, it is you, isn’t it?

ARCHIVIST

( _???_ ) Uh, yes, I am. But who—hff!

[SOUNDS OF BREATH BEING CRUSHED OUT OF LUNGS, A SHIFT OF BODY AND CLOTHES THAT SUGGESTS BEING HOISTED OFF THE GROUND.] 

???

Ha! You haven’t put on an ounce since then, have you? That’s saying something, isn’t it? Granny Sims didn’t believe in meals that didn’t come directly from the produce section, did she? Don’t tell me you’re still living on that leaf and twig diet.

[SOUNDS OF SHOES MEETING THE SIDEWALK AGAIN, RENEWED BREATHING.] 

I mean, I’d assume from the takeout you’re getting some meat in, but honestly, you look like a coat rack. 

ARCHIVIST

I-I ( _Clears throat._ ) I am working on it, actually. But, I’m sorry, really, I don’t actually recall your name..?

???

( _Amused chuckle, infinitely friendly._ ) I’m not surprised. Neither of us were really talkers back then. Everyone was always snapping at you to keep your questions to yourself, and I was always hanging around in the background, not saying a thing. Spent most of our time just being quiet at each other, really. You were usually so sucked into your books you didn’t notice anyone else around. So, a reintroduction, then. 

[SHIFT OF CLOTH, LIKE THE SLEEVE OF A HEAVY COAT, PERHAPS A HAND EXTENDING.] 

Ames. At least to friends.

ARCHIVIST

Jon. To just about everyone these days. 

[MATCHING SHIFT OF A LIGHTER SLEEVE, THE CLASP OF HANDS.] 

Nice to meet you again, I guess.

AMES

Likewise. Do you live far?

ARCHIVIST

Oh, uh, no, not really. ( _Rustles the plastic takeout bag._ ) Walking distance. Ah, yourself?

AMES

Not too far either. Though I personally can’t stomach the fast food around here. Anywhere, really. My own culinary issues, you know, what with the liquid diet. You wouldn’t guess it looking at me, though, would you?

ARCHIVIST

No, I wouldn’t. I…I, ah…

AMES

Are you alright?

ARCHIVIST

Uh, head rush, I think. Been a bit off, lately. 

AMES

Not sleeping, are you? The eyes are a bit of a giveaway.

ARCHIVIST

( _A sound that wants to be a laugh, but comes out as a pant._ ) 

[A SINGLE, CURT FOOTSTEP, AS IF STEADYING FROM A NEAR-TOPPLE.]

M’fine. Just, just need some food in me.

AMES

True, but not swill like that chicken-and-rice mess. And certainly not before you take a rest. You look like you’ll fall down before you get to lay—

[STUMBLING AND FUMBLING AS A FALLING WEIGHT IS CAUGHT.] 

Ha, whoops, there you go. How’re your legs?

ARCHIVIST

M’sorry… Sorry, wasn’t this bad when I left, I wasn’t, I…

[PLASTIC TAKEOUT BAG HITS THE SIDEWALK IN A BURSTING SPLATTER.]

What…whuh..? Hhh…

AMES (?)

I only ask, because you shouldn’t be able to tell by now. Gave you just enough that you shouldn’t be feeling or moving anything below the neck. Or even below the nose. Heh. Can’t really string your questions together if you can’t move your tongue, can you?

ARCHIVIST

( _Sounds of attempted and failed speech. Weak scuffing of shoes against sidewalk. Quick, panicked breathing._ )

AMES (??)

Honestly, Jon, I’d thought you’d be accustomed to this by now. You’ve gotten the chauffeur treatment from so many other Fears, it’s only fair we have our turn. And, in keeping with tradition, no, you won’t be ending this latest abduction as a corpse. If you can believe it, not all of those getaways were due to our strings, either. The avatars talk a big, menacing game, but, like all living or living-adjacent things, we really do appreciate company now and then. The kind within our own unique social circles, who don’t necessarily have to end up as more fodder for our patron or matron of choice. And, seeing as you are almost three decades late for our original lunch date, I’d say I’m more than owed a visit.

ARCHIVIST

( _!?!_ )

[A LAST DESPERATE TWITCH OF SHOES AND CLOTH.]

( _The frantic breaths taper to longer, more placid huffs. The placidity is somehow worse._ )

AMES (???)

There we are. Deep breaths, let it work. No one’s going to hurt you, Jon, least of all me. Really, you should be more worried about what you’re doing to yourself. But we’ll talk more on that once you get some decent REM in that busy head of yours. Normal sleep-aid doesn’t do anything for you these days, I know, but my dose is a guarantee. Should be going slack any—

ARCHIVIST

Hh!

[SHOES SKIDDING ABRUPTLY, ANOTHER RUSTLE OF FABRIC AND LIMBS. TOO MANY LIMBS.]

???

( _Awful, spindly-sounding adjustment of flesh and abundant joints. When he speaks next, his voice has a whispering, chittering lilt._ ) I’ve got you, it’s fine. Up we go. Goodness, you really are wasting away, aren’t you? I bet a strong breeze could carry you off even without the Vast’s help. 

( _A sigh mingled with good humor and concern, spoiled by the insectile edge._ ) Oh, Jon. Seeing you do this to yourself…

MR. SPIDER

( _A voice full of other, scurrying things, some small, some large, but all of them many, surging out of whatever mouth the distorted voice pretends to speak through._ ) I DON’T LIKE IT.

ARCHIVIST

( _Dwindling noises that want to be screams, and can’t be. Silence._ )

[SCURRYING.] 

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[SOUNDS OF SOFT, RHYTHMIC BREATHING. SOFTER SOUNDS OF THOUSANDS OF TINY LEGS SCURRYING.] 

ARCHIVIST

( _Muffled, groggy noises. Just-coming-out-of-a-nap sighs._ )

( _???_ )

( _!?!_ )

( _!!!_ )

( _Much louder, incredibly panicked noises. Also muffled. The pitch gets shriller as the countless little legs all pause in their aimless puttering and scurry together, all as one. Louder, closer._ )

[SOUNDS OF CONSTRICTED THRASHING. A STICKY, TUGGING SOUND, LIKE SOMEONE TRYING TO RIP VERY STRONG ADHESIVE. SCURRYING SOUND IS EVERYWHERE, EVEN OVER THE RECORDER.] 

( _Very loud, very frantic muffled noises. Tipping into hyperventilation, perhaps tears._ )

[MORE SCURRYING.]

MR. SPIDER

( _From a distance._ ) Up already? And here I thought you’d be down another two hours, at least. The Eye really has toughened up your system. 

( _Closer, closer, voice carrying over the sound of much louder, much slower scurrying._ ) Just as well, I suppose. You’ve already slept most of the day away up here and we can’t have you dozing at the table. Feeling less foggy now?

ARCHIVIST

( _Muffled cries, harder thrashing._ )

[STRONG ADHESIVE DOESN’T BUDGE.]

MR. SPIDER

Jon, it’s alright. We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to help. I know, I know, bad associations with being gagged, but this—

ARCHIVIST

( _Sudden muffled yelp._ )

MR. SPIDER

—was for your benefit. I can’t imagine you’d have liked waking up, setting yourself to screaming, and everyone rushing inside to say hello. Not that they’d give you Carlos Vittery’s treatment, mind, but none of them are terribly discreet about our fondness unless one of Mother’s many hands is steering. You wouldn’t believe how much Annabelle and I have to scold the little things out of visiting you every time you take a rest.

Before you think it, no, you are not living out that absurd urban legend about swallowing spiders in your sleep. With the exception of rare, purposeful cases like Mr. Vittery’s, no creature is going to willingly crawl inside a giant’s mouth to die in its belly. Unless Mother asks politely, of course. 

But, if it really is bothering you, I can just take this off. Do you want me to? I’m sure you’d at least like a chance at Compelling me to let you go. Ready?

[SOFT ADHESIVE-SNAPPING SOUNDS. BREATH HISSED IN THROUGH CLENCHED TEETH.]

There we are. Anything to say, Jon?

ARCHIVIST

Y- ( _Immediate gasp through the nose, an audible pursing of lips. Wordless, self-muffled moan._ )

MR. SPIDER

Ha, just what I was talking about. That’s a golden orb weaver, if you didn’t already Know. She was loitering right under your chin, waiting for a chance. Weren’t you, love? Oh, and I wouldn’t bother trying to shake her off. You’ve got a hundred other fans waiting to take her spot. Like this handsome fellow. See?

ARCHIVIST

( _Unhappier moaning._ )

MR. SPIDER

I know! Now, he’s technically not on Mother’s payroll, so to speak. Huntsman spiders, Giant or otherwise, are more for stalk-and-capture methods versus silk-spinning. But who am I to judge, eh? Takes all kinds of talent to make the Web function. And he’s certainly Spider enough to be fond of you. See? 

ARCHIVIST

( _As close to screaming as one can get with lips clamped together._ )

[FRANTIC, FRUITLESS TUGGING AT ADHESIVE.]

MR. SPIDER

Relax, Jon, he’s not going to bite. Your face is occupied, after all, and it’s not like there are that many of his friends waiting in your shirt. Oh. You did Know there were others in there, didn’t you? Jon? Still with us? Jon?

ARCHIVIST

( _Erratic breathing, somewhere between hyperventilating and trying not to breathe at all, as if fearful of inhalation. Eventually breaks into distinctly sob-like huffs._ )

MR. SPIDER

Jon… 

[A QUIET, WET, SHLUCKING SOUND.]

Would you like another shot? It wouldn’t put you under, just calm you down. You wouldn’t even feel it. No? Then listen. Just listen. 

You are safe here, understand? No violent perils, no cataclysms, no rituals. You could fall and crush a hundred of your little hosts, perhaps get a sudden surge of power and go running around, swinging an axe into your much larger hosts—and we wouldn’t care. Really, we wouldn’t. Not if it was you.

Spiders have an interesting relationship with death, Jon. Do you know how many species there are where the males actually line up to mate, knowing the odds are likely he’ll be eaten once the intimacy’s over? By the same token, do you know how many arachnid mothers there are who know they will be eaten as their children’s first meal, and do not run the day they hatch? Fear and love are conjoined through the whole life cycle for us. 

This is not to say the Mother loves, of course. We all know better than that. But the Mother does care. We are her children as much as her puppets and, in her tending and guiding us, she passes on her habits. The Spider’s innate, magnetic draw to those who Fear it, Fear the Web’s clutches, and redesign it into the closest thing it can call Love. 

That was how Annabelle Cane happened, at least. I watched over her for almost as long as I did you, you know. Had the two of you met sooner, you could have had your own arachnophobic club growing up. The poor girl had to go at least three rooms over if she saw a spider. Went into fits if she saw a tangle of thread on the floor that even resembled one. 

We loved her. Mother loved her, as best she could, as she had always planned to, and guided her to that fateful experiment that would convert her into part of the family. Now Annabelle loves too. I’m sure you could tell from her statement she’s rather happy with the new arrangement.

Oh, listen to me ramble. This isn’t a lesson in arachnology. This is an intervention. Plus a meal, because why go over all this dramatic nonsense on an empty stomach? First things first, we need you out of bed. Such as it is. Really more of a hammock, I guess. Cozy, isn’t it? More people should get in on it—it’d certainly make picking up meals easier. 

That was a joke, Jon. 

Now, just give me a moment here…

[ADHESIVE RIPPING/DISSOLVING.]

Almost—there. Get your feet under you, come on. Need a chair?

ARCHIVIST

[STUMBLE OF FEET, BACKPEDALING.] 

G- ( _Attempted steadying breath._ ) Getthemoff.Pleasegetthemoff.

MR. SPIDER

Oh, well, since you said please. Come on, everyone, give him some space. Yes, you lot in the pockets too. And the hair. Shoo.

[RELUCTANT RETREATING SCURRYING]

Better?

ARCHIVIST

( _Shuddering, semi-composed breath._ ) I’m not sure how to answer that.

MR. SPIDER

How about, ‘Yes, Mr. Spider, much better, thank you.’

ARCHIVIST

( _Immediately, in identical inflection._ ) Yes, Mr. Spider, much better, thank you. 

( _Immediately, in too aware, deeply dreading inflection._ ) Oh, God.

MR. SPIDER

He isn’t here, Jon. Just me, my selves, and you. Now, let’s head down, shall we? I’ve ordered a little something for us and we should have enough time to—

ARCHIVIST

( _Light crackle of static rising._ ) Let me out of h—mmh. ( _Static vanishes. !?!_ )

MR. SPIDER

Ah, should’ve been quicker. And better fed. 

( _Sigh._ ) To get this out of the way: no, it doesn’t matter how much you yank at it, your mouth won’t open until I say it should. Even then, your dialogue options are, as you’ve noticed, on a leash in here. As long or as short as I want to make it. Likewise to any other actions of yours. Really, the fact that you can even be Aware enough to feel anything other than what I tell you to feel is about as much wiggle room as you’re bound to get. I really am trying my hardest right now to reach in and switch off the adrenaline, the fear response, all of it—but you have too much of the Eye in you to go that deep.

This all might have gone much smoother for you otherwise. But we’ll make a silver lining out of it, won’t we? See if we can’t get a real lesson out of this whole experience rather than you just sitting through dinner, listening to a lecture. 

( _Brightly._ ) A little abject terror goes a long way towards wanting to better yourself, I’ve found. Now come along. We may as well set the table. Go ahead and take your little friend with you.

[HEAVY, LEISURELY SCURRYING, DESCENDING.]

ARCHIVIST

[A RIPPING ADHESIVE SOUND AS THE RECORDER IS LIFTED. STILTED, THEN LIKEWISE LEISURELY FOOTSTEPS, DESCENDING.]

( _Bewildered muffled sounds. Extremely unhappy._ )

[EN MASSE SCURRYING FOLLOWS.]

( _Even unhappier muffled sounds._ )

MR. SPIDER

Do you like the tulips? I did think of going for something a little less on-the-nose—maybe daisies, roses—but I was feeling nostalgic. You can answer.

ARCHIVIST

( _Quiet swallow, unsteady._ ) I-I always thought they were bluebells.

MR. SPIDER

[SOFT SOUNDS OF PLATES AND CUTLERY BEING ARRANGED ON WOODEN TABLE.]

Ah, that would be the artistic license of a not-so-talented illustrator. Still, admirable effort for a fellow who was drawing with his eyes ripped out. Fetch us some cups, would you? Cupboard on the right. 

ARCHIVIST

Which—ah!

[BRISK FOOTSTEPS, CUPBOARD DOOR CREAKING, PORCELAIN CLATTER.]

Y-You don’t have to do that.

MR. SPIDER

I know.

( _Return of the distorted tone._ ) BUT I LIKE IT.

( _Cheerily._ ) Plus, it saves time. I know where everything is, and I wouldn’t want you burning yourself out on trying to Know something when you’re already so weak. Have a seat, Jon.

[UNPLEASANT SHIFTING, JOINTS BENDING, CHAIR PULLED OUT.]

ARCHIVIST

[CHAIR PULLED OUT, CUPS SET ON TABLE. THICK, VISCOUS POURING SOUNDS.]

That—that doesn’t look like tea.

MR. SPIDER

That’s because it isn’t. Told you, liquid diet. Call this an appetizer before the entrée shows up. Has to be served cold, you know, otherwise it just goes to rot. More the kind of stuff the Hive would slurp up. I’d let some putrefy for a care package, but I do already send them the husks on the regular. Perhaps for Christmas. A nice holiday slurry. 

[FLESHY, CHITINOUS MOTIONS. THICK SLURPING SOUND.]

Go ahead and try yours, Jon. Let me know if it needs a little something added. I’ve not got much in the way of traditional taste buds, so I take mine plain, but I’ve got seasonings on hand if you want them.

ARCHIVIST

( _Audible nausea._ ) I’m fine, thanks.

MR. SPIDER

Oh, come on now, it’s hardly different from a cold stew when you come down to it. Meat is meat as our friends with the Flesh say. There’s worse stuff in your average canned soup than this. All organic, no nasty chemicals. 

ARCHIVIST

I-I’m sure. But I really don’t—,

MR. SPIDER

( _Distorted._ ) IT IS POLITE TO EAT WHAT’S OFFERED.

ARCHIVIST

Wait, no, no, no, _no, don’t_ —! ( _Thick, continuous gulping noises. Intense gagging, retching sounds._ ) Ohggh—oh God, oh God—hhgh—

MR. SPIDER

Ah, ah, no. Keep it all down, Jon.

ARCHIVIST

( _Strained sounds, as if something’s trying to escape a closed mouth._ )

MR. SPIDER

That’s it. Just breathe. It was only meat, Jon. Tell yourself that. Say it out loud.

ARCHIVIST

It was—it was— 

MR. SPIDER

Now, Jon.

ARCHIVIST

( _Abrupt, matter-of-fact calm._ ) It was only meat.

( _Likewise abrupt disgust._ ) Oh God…

MR. SPIDER

Still not on the guest list.

[ANOTHER THICK, IDLE SLURP.]

Seconds for you?

ARCHIVIST

No! Please, no.

MR. SPIDER

Ah, well, more for me then. 

[MORE THICK POURING.]

The important thing is you tried it, and that really means so much to me. To all of us. Probably the healthiest thing you’ve eaten in the last couple days. 

[SLURP.]

That is the crux of this little visit, Jon. Your new eating habits and what dangerous roads it may lead you down. We’re all quite worried.

ARCHIVIST

( _Shakily._ ) So, so what? The Web is suddenly playing nutritionist as well as voyeur?

MR. SPIDER

Ha! No, Jon. While the Web and the Eye are rather close as far as our mutual yen for keeping a close Watch on things goes, we’ve quite different approaches when a wrinkle in our plans arises. Where your Ceaseless Watcher might be content to let you play at a hunger strike for a while before it decides to take more proactive measures, Mother is always quick to patch a broken thread in her weaving. 

Especially one that supports so much of the design’s integrity. Really, you can hardly blame her for taking action. If you truly wanted your crash diet to work, you wouldn’t have gone and narrated your plan out loud. Practically a cry for help.

And we are here to help, Jon. Myself most of all.

ARCHIVIST

I don’t want your help. In any case, so far half of my clever plans have gone to hell without any ‘help’ from you and yours. Why not just, just let this play out? For all you know, I could stroll right back to work and start inhaling statements by the hour.

MR. SPIDER

That is the ideal outcome as Mother sees it. But Mother also sees nearly as much as the Watcher, and, unlike the latter, she actually understands what she sees. 

( _Picture of concern._ ) She understands that you are teetering far too close to the edge of self-destruction. It really isn’t hard to break into your phone, Jon. Nor to see the recent searches. 

Which were you swinging more towards, if I may ask? Pills and a red wine chaser, or that steak knife to the femoral arteries as you sat in a last warm bath? How close were you to just casually lifting a gun off Daisy or Basira? Or doing the noble, painful thing, and slathering the Archives with petrol before using this—

[SOUND OF A LIGHTER BEING FLICKED OPEN.]

—to let the whole mess burn? For some reason, you couldn’t just Know the time it would take for all the staff to evacuate once you pulled the alarm, so you had to look up the building plans and write out the minutes.

[SOUND OF LIGHTER CLOSING.]

There’s no time we aren’t watching, Jon. And, much as we may appear the ever-clever, all-according-to-plan chess masters you’ve dreamed up, there is also no time we aren’t worrying. The Desolation could very well have blessed such a move as the latter, you know. Laughed in their ashes and wax about such a betrayal to Eye and Web. 

But other strings were pulled, and you were pulled with them, towards something that looked like hope. ‘It’s too drastic,’ we imagined you thinking. ‘There must be a way to fix this, to fix me.’ You were so busy idolizing Daisy’s so-called recovery that we made our own mistake—we thought you would simply revert right back to nibbling on your paper statements again. 

Except, no. No, you had your big moral scare, your oh-no-I’m-a-monster moment—much thanks to Basira, hypocrisy incarnate—and so you decided to just stop being what you are through the power of an eating disorder—

ARCHIVIST

I am eating—nngh.

MR. SPIDER

Don’t interrupt. And kindly don’t lie. You know exactly what you’re doing, Jon, and that is playing a game of chicken with your patron. Either you wean yourself off statements and miraculously regain your humanity, or you starve to death, even after eating twice your weight in what used to be your comfort foods. All of which now taste like so much dust in your mouth. 

Am I wrong? …You can answer.

ARCHIVIST

I—

MR. SPIDER

If you don’t lie. 

ARCHIVIST

…There are worse things than dying. 

MR. SPIDER

Yes, there are. 

While we’ve got our eyes as well as your Eye on things to make sure you don’t come to an unscheduled end, there is still a possibility that death will get to you. You hardly live a safe life, after all. Frankly, you give us a good scare now and then, Jon. The Web accounts for several possibilities and does its best to keep your nose out of things too dangerous for your own good, but as time has gone on, you have proven to be…trickier to grasp. 

If only because the Eye seems to have found its soulmate in you, its co-conspirator in seeking out things of incalculable danger, things that rightly terrified you; but not enough to stop you from rubbing your face on them like a cat with its nip.

Do you think we made you go into the Buried, Jon? Or that we were responsible for helping you out of it? Did we force you to open the door on the Dark Sun, a force we had every reason to believe would blind you rather than be swallowed whole by your Eyes? No!

No, all we hoped for in cases like those was that your bizarre, love-hate relationship with luck managed to pull you from the brink. Thus far it has. Because you were eating your meals like a good boy.

And I feel it’s fitting that, now that you aren’t, you’ve left yourself open for the old gag again. ‘Jonathan Sims Gets Kidnapped and Menaced, No One Surprised.’ 

ARCHIVIST

Are you seriously blaming me for getting abducted?

MR. SPIDER

No, not at all. I’m simply pointing out that if you had been operating at the level of power you had when you ate an antithetical star with your Eyes, you would have Seen me coming, or at least Known straight off that I wasn’t the man I looked like. You could have caught me right out and Compelled a little chat out of me, perhaps even made it back with your cold takeout in hand.

But you weren’t, and you didn’t. And—I’m aware this is a broken record, but I feel it needs repeating—you will come to no harm while you’re here, Jon. Neither scratch nor bruise nor bite. I’m assuming this fact has given you some small feeling of security. Just another bout of harassment from the supernatural to sit through before you go home and try to die. However:

( _Audible smile._ ) I have been directly tasked by Mother to make sure any and all feeling of security you have in this, or in the concept of self-destruction, is trampled into nothing. Since dinner’s running late, I think we can go ahead and get started now.

Open your mouth. Do not move.

ARCHIVIST

W- ( _Small, choked sound._ )

MR. SPIDER

Right. Everyone, go ahead.

[SCURRYING CLOSES IN.]

ARCHIVIST

( _Screaming._ )

[LOUDEST SCURRYING.]

( _Screams turn to gagging mingled with scurrying._ )

MR. SPIDER

Out.

[SCURRYING REVERSES.]

In.

[SCURRYING BACK.]

Out. In. Out. In.

[SCURRYING LIKE A TIDE, INTERMINGLED WITH ARCHIVIST’S NOISES.]

If you’d like this to stop, I give you permission to use your right hand. One tap to continue, two taps to stop.

[RAPID TAPPING OF WOOD.]

Ah, that’s a bit fast. Is that you taking a third option? Alright. Everyone out of the throat, but don’t leave the mouth. There we are. Compromise in action. 

Breathe, Jon. They’ll make room.

ARCHIVIST

( _Pained choking noises._ )

[TAP-TAP. TAP-TAP. TAP-TAP.]

MR. SPIDER

Oh, _now_ stop. Thank you, Jon, that’s much clearer. Okay, everyone out. Go on. I know, I know, it’s a thrill being right up next to the vocal cords, but he’s our guest, not a museum. Now, I’m certain they all wiped their feet before climbing in to visit, but I imagine there’s a bit of an aftertaste. And since I really would feel guilty having it all to myself, here.

[SOUND OF A HALF-FULL TEAPOT PUSHED ACROSS A TABLE.]

Wash it down with this. Now.

ARCHIVIST

( _Too-brief sound of denial, followed by thick, horrid drinking noises._ )

MR. SPIDER

All of it. I’m not putting it back in the fridge and we can’t just throw it out, can we? Waste not, want not, I say. Need a napkin?

ARCHIVIST

( _Gasp as the drinking noise finally, finally stops. Gorge rising and falling._ ) Pl-please. Please stop. Stop.

MR. SPIDER

Ah, there’s please again. Since you asked politely, how about this? If you can make it to the door before I can stop you, we can end the whole visit right now. Sound good? Good. On the count of three, you have my permission to move. One. Two. Three!

ARCHIVIST

[IMMEDIATE SCRAPE OF A CHAIR, SPRINTING FEET.]

MR. SPIDER

Too slow.

ARCHIVIST

[SPRINT COMES TO A DEAD STOP.]

Stop that! God, just stop, I get the point, alright!? Just—ah!

[HEEL OF A SHOE SPINS ON WOODEN FLOOR, FOOTSTEPS PLOD LIGHTLY BACK THE WAY THEY CAME.]

Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it ( _Static simmers._ ) _stop it, stop it_ —

MR. SPIDER

Shush.

ARCHIVIST

( _Shushed._ )

MR. SPIDER

If you can’t say anything nice, you’re not going to talk. Which is a shame, because in all my years keeping eyes on you, I grew rather fond of your voice. I was quite thrilled when Granny Sims elbowed you into the choir. Church, school, whichever, whatever. I was hardly surprised when Georgie first started making moves on you after you got tipsy enough to take song requests at the one and only college party you dared to attend. 

It’s been too long since you’ve sung, Jon. So sing. Nothing in human tongue, though. Try the Buried’s song. You have it Archived already. 

Sing.

ARCHIVIST

( _Attempted silence. Sudden inhale. The Archivist sings. It is pitch-perfect to the Buried’s call, beautiful and full of sad, snaring hooks._ )

MR. SPIDER

( _Happy sigh._ ) Oh, that is lovely. You could have been a musician in another life, Jon. Don’t you agree?

ARCHIVIST

( _Still singing._ )

MR. SPIDER

‘Yes, Mr. Spider, I agree completely.’

ARCHIVIST

Yes, Mr. Spider, I agree completely.

MR. SPIDER

( _Chuckle._ ) ‘I’m Jonathan Sims, and I don’t know the difference between evil, monstrous pleasure, and just not starving myself.’

ARCHIVIST

I’m Jonathan Sims, and I don’t know the difference between evil, monstrous pleasure, and just not starving myself.

MR. SPIDER

‘Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding how much he’s enjoying his belated visit to his friend, Mr. Spider.’

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding how much he’s enjoying his belated visit to his friend, Mr. Spider.

MR. SPIDER

‘Statement of Mr. Spider, regarding how Jonathan Sims is setting himself up for quite a surprise if he keeps rebuffing the Eye.’

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Mr. Spider, regarding how Jonathan Sims is setting himself up for quite a surprise if he keeps rebuffing the Eye.

MR. SPIDER

Well, if you insist. I’ll keep it brief—wouldn’t want to ruin your appetite for the main course. 

Oh, and stand on your hands while you listen. Ha! Honestly wasn’t sure if you could still do that, you haven’t tried it in years. Excellent balance. Anyway.

The short of it is, yes, you are leaving yourself vulnerable the more you abstain from the statements. Yes, it is hurting you to not abide by the creative new digestive system the Eye has given you. Yes, for any other avatar in your situation, this would, eventually, wither you away to a morally-upright demise.

Unfortunately, you are not any other avatar, Jonathan Sims. Off your hands now. Sit here. Close. Listen close.

( _Darkly._ ) While the Eye has its claim on you now, its grip can be weakened, even without the more drastic measure of inflicted blindness. And should you succeed in prying your way out of its nonexistent hand—( _Brightly._ ) —the Web will be there, so very happy to catch you. We have been there for you longer than any other entity. Mother would not let you throw yourself away after all this time and care. Nor would I. Your fear, Jon… 

( _Exalted sigh._ ) Your fear is so very, very ripe for conversion. Greater than even Annabelle’s was, once upon a time. I’m quite proud of it in this late stage. 

You would look wonderful with six more Eyes, Jon. Oh, and think of what a boon it would be to Mother! Even if your original purpose fell through, we would still have a puppet of two Powers in the family. She may even make you happy. More than can be said for the Ceaseless Watcher. You complained of that to the Distortion, as I recall. What were your exact words, Jon? Tell me.

ARCHIVIST

( _Straining._ ) When does it stop? The guilt. Misery. All the others I’ve met, they’re been cold, cruel. They’ve enjoyed what they do. When does the Eye make me monstrous?

MR. SPIDER

The Distortion was right to laugh. Of course the Eye wouldn’t make you monstrous, not while you were already eating your fill. I suspect that, now that you’re on this silly fighting-my-oh-so-evil-urges kick, any impulse it does force on you now would just be proof that your traumatic anorexia is more necessary. The Watcher backed itself into a corner there.

But the Web is in _your_ corner, Jon. Waiting to make use of you, whatever you may become. Hence my mandatory taste test with the appetizer. That is what you’ll have to dine on should you break clean of your craving for statements. No more meals of scary stories and a few bad dreams; your diet of nutritious vapor. 

There is no such thing as a vegetarian spider.

Are you following me, Jon? Jon?

ARCHIVIST

( _Quiet, broken up by very small noises, creaks of the throat, sobs not-quite-stifled._ ) I can’t do this. I-I-I can’t—I can’t—

MR. SPIDER

You can and you will. You—oh, Jon, none of that. Jon…

ARCHIVIST

( _Hoarse, almost a shrill._ ) Stop! Just stop this, don’t touch me! Get off of me, just stop— ( _Generally fearful, angry gibberish._ )

[SKIDDING, BACKPEDALING SHOES, FLAILING.]

MR. SPIDER

Come here. Come on.

ARCHIVIST

[STRUGGLING STOPS. FOOTSTEPS.]

No, no, no, I don’t _want_ to, _stop_ this, _no_ —

MR. SPIDER

When was the last time you were in contact with someone who didn’t mean you harm, Jon? Months? Years? I honestly can’t recall. So hush—

ARCHIVIST

( _Hushed._ )

MR. SPIDER

( _Gently._ ) —and come here. You need this, and I’m here to give you what you need. 

[AWFUL JOINT NOISES, HUGE LIMBS FOLDING IN, ALMOST COVERING THE SOUND OF THE ARCHIVIST’S WORDLESS GRIEF.]

There we go. Shh. It’s alright, let it out. 

ARCHIVIST

( _Muffled, despairing, disgusted sounds, as if sobbing into a thick comforter._ )

MR. SPIDER

Now, I’m no mind reader, but I think it’s safe to assume that by now you’re circling back to thoughts of pills and bathtubs and bullets and fires. I don’t blame you. No one would. But before you lose yourself too deeply in the daydream of them, consider:

One, I have said before that we were worried for you. That we pulled just enough strings to steer you from something too drastic. I imagine we’ll not be able to repeat the same trick after this. So we will be forced to take more overt measures to keep you safe from yourself. I would tell you that anything you imagine is bound to be far worse than what we would resort to, but I would be lying. 

Tamer methods might include an Institute enshrouded in cobwebs, your coworkers and compatriots drifting through the halls like marionettes, never touching the ground. They’d remember nothing upon leaving the building—save for your fellows in the Archive, I’d think.

Or—and this is the most ideal method in my opinion—it could just be you. A little creative house arrest here with me. I’ve never had a housemate before, but I know already we’d get on beautifully. Can you picture it, Jon? I implore you to—yours is a vivid imagination and I’m sure you can See it in your head as clear as if it were happening now.

You go to swallow the pills, or saw open your thighs, or load the gun, or pour the fuel. And then, suddenly, you’re not. You’re setting down your last resort of choice, calm as anything, and walking outside. A friend is waiting for you, your childhood friend, still wearing that dapper red hat, there to walk you home. And once you’re home, you don’t have to worry about anything even halfway resembling the joke of free will.

Because that is what started off this whole downhill spiral into self-loathing. Your shame at daring to want the thing that keeps you alive and strong. Mere words, Jon, and a healthy splash of trauma—that’s the cuisine you decided was just too profane to let yourself enjoy. Well, here, that would change. 

I could have puppets bring you statements in stacks. I could have living statements walk right up to the door. I could have you nurse on my own fare and see how long it takes for you to open your new Eyes, to grow your new limbs, to have new little friends come crawling out of your throat whenever I have you speak. Whatever works for you.

Which will be whatever I tell you works for you. Imagine the freedom from your brooding and scruples, Jon, if you stayed here. I could walk you around, work your voice, have you sing and dance, string you up like decoration, make you play host to whatever new meal we share before we make them dinner. You’ll never have to fret over whether or not you’re enjoying your actions, because I will decide every action for you. 

And if you’re ever found, you can tell your friends, ‘Please, please, it’s not my fault!’ and everyone would know you told the truth, including you. Even as you ate them, it would be true.

Can you See it, Jon? Do you like it? Because, since we are being honest here—

( _Distorted._ ) I LIKE IT.

ARCHIVIST

( _Bone-deep misery._ ) Please…please…

MR. SPIDER

Can’t quite hear you, Jon. Enunciate and try again: ‘Yes, Mr. Spider, I do like the idea of staying here with you. Perhaps I’ll quit the Eye today and move in right now. I Know the only one who might miss me is Martin, and even he’s half-eaten by the Lonely as it is.’ 

ARCHIVIST

( _Trembling between the same pleasant tone and genuine horror-lividness. Tiniest bit of static._ ) Y-Yes, Mr. Spider, I-I do like the idea of—of—

[KNOCK-KNOCK. SOUND OF SKIN CLAPPING DOWN ON SKIN.]

Mmf.

MR. SPIDER

Oh, finally! Go ahead and take your seat, Jon, I’ll get the door. 

[LOUD, RETREATING SCURRYING. PAUSE, THEN A SCRAPE OF A CHAIR. A DOOR OPENS.]

( _Distant._ ) Do come in.

[LOUD SCURRYING RETURNS. MEASURED FOOTSTEPS FOLLOW. A HAND PATS THE WOODEN TABLE.]

Your seat’s right here, Mr. Forten.

[CREAK OF THE WOODEN TABLE AS A LARGE WEIGHT SETTLES ON IT.]

Now, this is where work comes before pleasure, I’m afraid. Also, common courtesy. I’ve already put you on the spot as my guest—rule number one, no turning down the host’s cooking, no matter how much it isn’t to your taste. And you cleared your plate. Well, cup. Teapot. You get it. 

Now comes my duty as host, and that is to also account for my guest’s dietary requirements. Coming full circle to the issue of your eating habits. A refresher:

Mother would prefer you didn’t forsake your role as Archivist. You are key to something quite important down the line, and we need you not only wearing your title, but strong enough to support it. Eating your greens and all. But, as we’ve seen, you’ve been cowed both externally and internally out of seeing to your own needs. And I’m not saying you have to have a live statement on the regular—print will still keep you running—but you are the guest here, Jon, and that means you deserve to indulge. 

Especially since I went to all the trouble of picking out the cruelty-free option for you. Mr. Forten, show Jon the book. 

MR. FORTEN

[FUMBLES SLOWLY WITH SOMETHING. A SLEEVE SHIFTS.]

MR. SPIDER

Take it, Jon. A little parting gift from Mother to you. Bet you didn’t Know there was a sequel, did you? ‘Another Guest for Mr. Spider.’ I’ll not spoil the ending, but it does involve a new character: Mr. Eye. Sure to be a fan favorite, I think. That’s for later. For now:

Ask Mr. Forten how he got the book.

ARCHIVIST

H- ( _Static. Proper, crackling static._ ) How did you get this book, Arthur Forten?

ARTHUR FORTEN

( _Flat._ ) It was in one of the donation boxes. Wrapped in brown paper and string—like the song about favorite things. 

I work with children, you see, and we’re always getting kiddie stuff in the boxes. Toys and clothes and books that well-off families dump on us once their well-off kids grow out of them. Hardly ever get anything new. So the book was a surprise. It looked fresh, somehow. Like it had just been printed that morning. The pages were warm.

I was a little surprised that I bothered to take an interest in it; I’ve learned to stop taking an interest in anything to do with the kids, even tangentially. Used to be because I felt bad. Now I’ve learned to feel nothing. I’ve got my work to do, and the kids—

I like to think it’s quick for them. The batches that come through. I like to think that maybe…maybe they just die, when it’s time for them to go. I like to think that.

But I still hear them, sometimes. Only me. The other kids, the new ones who get cycled through, they never complain about the sounds that come through the walls. Maybe I’m imagining it. Whatever’s left of my guilty conscience trying to pull some Edgar Allan Poe crap on my senses. ‘The beating of his hideous heart,’ and all that.

But considering what it is I’ve been feeding the kids into, I think my senses are probably working just fine. Whatever that thing is—the one I came to the arrangement with—it’s rubbed off enough on me that I can pick these things up. At least a little. 

Used to be, I was just a worker there. A hired hand for the kitchen. No real experience with childcare or anything. Just there to make sure the kids ate right, the kitchen ran smooth, all that. Tons of kids running around, sans parents, sans family. Leftovers of society that no one really wanted to bother with, apart from the occasional happy, sappy couple looking to adopt one like a pup from the shelter. ‘Oh, look dear, this one’s blond! Ooh, and this one knows how to play piano, isn’t that darling?’ 

Or maybe that’s just me being bitter. Trying to make those folks sound worse than the thing that—

Well. In any case, the…arrangement didn’t become known to me until after Jack Borsley died. Former head of the place. Died in his sleep, if you can believe it. Quiet, painless old age. A day later, that thing shows up. Pretending it’s a man. 

It tells me, ‘We have heard Mr. Borsley has passed.’ 

I tell it yeah. Weirded out, you know, but still thinking it’s human. 

‘Unfortunate,’ it says. ‘We may delay the transaction one day in respect. It will now take place the upcoming Thursday.’

I ask it, what transaction? And it tells me. It tells me a lot of things. First and foremost, that I am now, as far as anyone else is concerned, the new head of the center. It tells me that this will be very beneficial to me, as far as tangible blessings went. Borsley did not die a poor man, I knew, and this thing told me I would want for none of my ‘creature comforts.’ All would run smoothly so long as I maintained the transactions in the coming years. 

Transactions to do with that tunnel under the cellar. There is no cellar in the blueprints, of course. I checked. But it’s there. It’s been there since long, long before a building full of little pitter-pattering pending transactions lived above it. 

It tells me what will happen to me if I fail to abide by the arrangement. To prove its credentials on this matter, it takes off its face.

It doesn’t have to tell me anything after that. 

Not for ten years, going on eleven. Every season, four kids go away. They aren’t remembered by anyone but me. Their friends, who knew them the day before, never ask where they are. If they could hear the walls, they’d know.

Or, perhaps that’s wrong. Because their voices are loudest at night. When the shadows get thick and rot the air to just enough porousness that they can cry out to me. Begging. Crying. Telling me, or whoever they think is listening, whoever can listen, that the Dark is not just around them anymore, but inside. Inside, and outside, and the Dark is drawn to Dark, and it will make a bridge of the meat and bone that separates it from itself.

Whatever that means. I don’t want to know what it means.

Anyway. The book. 

Another Guest for Mr. Spider. Bright and new, printer-hot. I opened it, just out of curiosity. Pretty straightforward thing. Looked like it’d been done in crayon. Red, black, white. Mr. Spider looks somewhere between silly and creepy, all bulging black and too many eyes. A little red hat, maybe a bowler or a badly-done fedora. 

There’s a knock at his door, and when you turn the page, there’s the guest. He looks a fair bit worse than Mr. Spider. Not the sort of thing that should be in a kiddie book. 

The guest is Mr. Eye, and he lives up to the name. He’s nothing but eyes, all colors, all over him. But they aren’t gawking—they’re sort of swooped, like crescents. That cartoony way you draw eyes when they’re sad. 

Mr. Spider asks what the matter is. Mr. Eye tells him he’s hungry, but nothing feels right when he tries to eat. He feels bad whenever he tries, because he knows he’s hurting something by doing it. Mr. Spider says it’s just how he’s made, and how Mr. Spider is too. There’s nothing wrong with doing what you’re made to do. But Mr. Eye’s still got his sad eyes on, disagreeing.

There’s another knock at the door. Another guest has arrived.

This one is just a man, a regular guy, but he’s got those big V-shaped brows and the giant frown that you give to grumps and villains in a kiddie book. Bullies. This guest is Mr. Wrong. 

Mr. Spider sees a solution. He tells Mr. Eye that there is a way he can eat without feeling guilty. If he does not feel right eating things that he feels don’t deserve it, why not just eat things that do? Mr. Eye’s eyes perk up. They’re wide open now. They are all looking at Mr. Wrong, and their colors are no longer a rainbow.

Every one of them is red.

The next page shows that Mr. Spider and Mr. Eye are alone at their table, bellies swollen. The page after that, all of their eyes look out at the reader. 

MR. SPIDER AND MR. EYE WANT ANOTHER GUEST FOR DINNER. IT IS POLITE TO KNOCK.

Then I was at the door, knocking twice. And here I am inside.

The kitchen has a new cook. Ms. Ranthaw. She loves the kids, I think. More than I did. 

I wonder how she’ll handle the transaction when it comes to her. 

ARCHIVIST

( _Deep, shuddering sigh._ )

MR. SPIDER

Statement ends. How was it, Jon? Filling? I hope so. The little conveyor belt of an adoption center Mr. Forten referred to has been at work for some time now. I’m sure with a little Knowing glance you can find it, put a stop to its ugly work. Rayner was not the only agent of the Dark, and far from the oldest, you know. Kicking over that little stronghold would certainly buck up the spirits of your Archive, I expect. A nice, neat win for the good guys.

As for Mr. Forten himself, I hardly think he deserves to walk around long enough for you to bother collecting his greasy, self-serving nightmares. 

( _Earnestly._ ) There are many more like Mr. Forten out there, Jon. Many more who are worse. You’ve been so focused on the eldritch nonsense cluttering your day-to-day life, that you haven’t stopped to think of the mundane human horrors that take up so much more of the world. Humans who use and abuse and torment and traffic and come up with evils so grand even the Fears would turn their metaphorical noses up in disgust. 

Humans who could use a dose of their own medicine. And then some. 

That is your vegetarian option, if you want to take it. I suppose that would make the paper statements vegan. Whatever works for you. Whatever it is that lets you take care of yourself and not resort to this miserable martyrdom you’ve been sniffing around. 

The Eye wants you, as much as it is capable of wanting anything. It has given you ample tools to keep you going, keep you Learning, keep you strong. The Web wants the same. 

You must be strong for what is coming, Jon. For all our sakes.

But if you ever feel you’re slipping, feel free to visit again. I’m here for you.

Now then, I’m feeling rather peckish myself, and my table manners really aren’t on par with yours. I think it’s best you sleep off your meal elsewhere. You can lay down now, Mr. Forten. 

ARCHIVIST

( _Leap of static._ ) Don’t—!

MR. SPIDER

( _Distorted._ ) SLEEP.

[SOUND OF A BODY TOPPLING, DISTINCT LACK OF BODY HITTING THE FLOOR. A TWANGING NOISE, LIKE SOFT CORDS PULLING TAUT.]

Wrap him up, will you? I’ll finish shortly.

[SLURPING SOUNDS MINGLED WITH A SUDDEN, WET SHRILL, THEN QUIET. SCURRYING FILLS THE AIR.]

[CLICK.]

[CLICK.]

[STRANGE AMBIENT SOUNDS IN THE DISTANCE. MOANS, ROARS, AND RUMBLES THAT MARK THE PRESENCE OF A WORLD POST-CHANGE. EXCITED BACKGROUND SCURRYING.]

MR. SPIDER

Did everyone find the place alright? I know, silly to ask, but this is all rather new to me. Usually I have the book to guide you all, but with all the Changes recently—well, I just like to be sure everybody’s getting the hang of the new method. Making adjustments to the new Powers, you know. So.

Did anyone have trouble finding my door? 

( _Distorted._ ) SPEAK.

GUESTS

( _In unison, a choir of no less than ten._ ) No, Mr. Spider, we found it just fine.

MR. SPIDER

[TOO MANY HANDS CLAP.]

Oh, wonderful! Now, you’re all quite comfortable? I do apologize for the unorthodox seating arrangements, but I’ve never needed to have so much space for my guests before. The silk isn’t cutting off any circulation, is it? Wouldn’t want anything to stop up or get clotted mid-dining.

GUESTS

( _In unison._ ) No, Mr. Spider, we’re all fine. The silk is quite comfortable. We will gladly wait our turns.

MR. SPIDER

( _Chipper as can be._ ) Happy to hear it. Now, who first, who first? Miss Abby Weller, how old are you, dear?

ABBY WELLER

( _Flat._ ) Eight, Mr. Spider.

MR. SPIDER

And a wee morsel you are, even for eight little years. What did you eat last, Miss Weller?

ABBY WELLER

I found half a candy bar yesterday, Mr. Spider. A man had been eating it before something twisted him all up and his hand couldn’t bend right to hold it. So I had that.

MR. SPIDER

I’ll bet it’s made you as sweet as you sound, dear. We’ll have you for an appetizer to start. Up on the table, please—

[KNOCK-KNOCK. SCURRYING STOPS.]

...Everyone? Was there anyone else with you when you arrived? 

GUESTS

( _In unison._ ) We’re all accounted for, Mr. Spider.

MR. SPIDER

( _Sigh._ ) Then that will have to be some Johnny-come-lately fresh avatar thinking this is just another house full of victims. Which I suppose isn’t wrong, but I got you all fair and square. They’ll either have to move along or—

( _Distorted, slightly salivating._ ) JOIN THE PARTY LIKE A POLITE GUEST.

( _Back to a put-out huff._ ) Unless it’s one of those waxy Desolate sorts. I’ll just have to make some candles if so. 

[HEAVY SCURRYING.]

( _Muttering, growing distant._ ) And of course they would have to come calling just as I’ve got the table set, honestly, even if the Night doesn’t work like it used to, there are still clocks, and still a level of basic decorum to follow around suppertime, that— 

[DOOR OPENS. THE DIN OF THE CHANGED WORLD IS SLIGHTLY LOUDER. A PAUSE. THE DOOR CLOSES.]

That...that was… ( _Mildly indignant._ ) Was I just ding-dong-ditched? Is that what the Changed world has come to, mingling monstrosity with—with common delinquency? Well.

[HEAVY SCURRYING RETURNS.]

We’ll see how they take it when they realize the silk is attached to them now. Can’t go anywhere without it once you touch my door, you little—

[HEAVY SCURRYING STOPS. A SOUND LIKE ADHESIVE RIPPING, THE AUDIO COMING IN CLEARER.]

When did you get here?

[A DIGIT TAPS THE RECORDER’S PLASTIC.]

( _Audible smile._ ) Jon? Is this you? ( _Chuckle._ ) Last I heard from Mother, you and Mr. Blackwood were honeymooning in the Eye of this worldwide storm. I’m flattered you’d come all the way back here to visit. You never expect your friends to remember you once they hit celebrity status, but if anyone would…

[KNOCK-KNOCK.]

Ha, I see. This is the back-for-revenge bit, is it? I do hate to dampen the mood, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve gotten quite a few upgrades since the Change. Archive or no, I’m afraid you’ll still be on a very uneven playing field the second you actually step inside. I had a whole pack of Hunters for dinner just last week. Turned out to be oddly spicy, in case you’re curious.

Still, if you’re interested, I’ve always got a chair waiting for you. We can split them down the middle, just like before. Fresh trauma for you, fresh flesh for me. I’m sure you’re not half as squeamish now as you were last time. How about it, Jon?

[KNOCK-KNOCK.]

Alright, alright. If you insist. 

( _Distorted, horrible good humor._ ) IT IS POLITE TO KNOCK, AFTER ALL.

[HEAVY SCURRYING STARTS.]

THE ARCHIVE

( _Has the reverb of a voice speaking through the recorder, the pleasant pitch of a child-friendly storyteller._ ) Mr. Spider’s Last Guest, an audiobook.

[HEAVY SCURRYING PAUSES.]

Knock-knock. 

[KNOCK-KNOCK.]

Who is it, Mr. Spider? 

[PAUSE. SCURRYING. DOOR OPENS.]

MR. SPIDER

What—

THE ARCHIVE

Mr. Spider cannot see. His eyes are not working. He cannot see his old friend, Mr. Eye, is there to See him. 

[DOOR SLOWLY CREAKS CLOSED.]

( _Immediately._ ) Knock-knock.

[KNOCK-KNOCK!]

Who is it, Mr. Spider?

MR. SPIDER

( _Irate._ ) Cute. If this is all you have, Jon, then I’ll have to get back to you. I’ve been famished all day and I’ll need a light snack before I properly get into this game with y—

[CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.]

W- ( _Digging for words._ ) Where did you get those?

GUESTS

( _In unison._ ) Who is it, Mr. Spider?

THE ARCHIVE

It is _not_ Mr. Eye. Mr. Eye did just what Mr. Spider said he should. He ate and grew strong for the trials ahead. His last big meal was in a place Mr. Spider and all his friends could never hope to see, for it was a place made of solitude. No company allowed in the Lonely. Mr. Eye ripped Mr. Lukas into tiny, foggy pieces with a thought inside that place, his own home. Then he took Mr. Blackwood away. Far away where he thought no one would bother them again.

Mr. Eye was wrong, because Mr. Eye was strong. Too strong. Just strong enough. He had to open one more Door he didn’t want to. A great, towering Door with Everything behind it.

Now Everything is here, and Mr. Eye has said goodbye.

Knock-knock.

[KNOCK-KNOCK!]

GUESTS

( _In unison, with static._ ) Who is it, Mr. Spider? 

MR. SPIDER

( _More irate, purposefully imposing._ ) Oh, do skip the theatrics, Jon. You’re not built for it when you aren’t speaking for someone else. Come out. ( _Faux cheer._ ) Rather, come in. Unless you want me to have Miss Weller while you’re doing your little read-along. Come here, dear. Ooh, and she has your Eyes now too! Do you See me in there, Jon? Will this recording go into your head with the rest? I hope so. I hope you keep it at the very front of your memory.

[FLESHY, CHITINOUS SOUND.]

ABBY WELLER

( _In a familiar accent she didn’t have a moment ago, dense with static._ ) It’s Mr. All. Can you See him yet, Mr. Spider? 

[SUDDEN SURGE OF STATIC, JUST AS SUDDEN QUIET. PAPER RUSTLES.]

MR. SPIDER

( _Dumbfounded._ ) What. What?

[PAPER RUSTLES, CRINKLES.]

_What?_ This isn’t—

THE ARCHIVE

Mr. Spider cannot see him yet, though Mr. All Sees him. He Sees that where Mr. Spider’s guest was, there is now only a guest on paper. She smiles. Mr. All is still waiting to be seen.

Knock-knock.

[KNOCK-KNOCK!]

GUESTS

( _All with the same tone that is so familiar, so much not theirs, so choked with static._ ) Who is it, Mr. Spider?

MR. SPIDER

( _Distorted, enraged._ ) SHUT UP!

[HEAVY, POUNDING SCURRYING.]

I KNOW YOU AREN’T AT THE DOOR, JON, SO WHERE ARE YOU? COME HERE! COME AND SEE YOUR FRIEND! LET ME GET A LOOK AT YOU! 

THE ARCHIVE

It’s Mr. All. 

( _Tone darkens._ ) He Knows All and Sees All and Clutches at the Secret Terror of All Hearts. He ceaselessly Watches all that is, and all that was, Observing and Experiencing All, Everything, and Forever. 

( _Tone distorts, a parody of Mr. Spider made infinitely worse._ ) MR. ALL DOESN’T LIKE IT.

( _Child-friendly again._ ) But he is taking Mr. Spider’s advice. There are meals out there who have just his sort of hunger coming to them. Oh, yes. And now that he is Mr. All, he Knows just how to serve them.

Alone.

[SEVERAL PAPERS RUSTLE AT ONCE.]

Abandoned.

[THE BACKGROUND DIN OF THE CHANGED WORLD GOES SILENT. IT IS NOW CLEAR THAT THE SMALLER SCURRYING OF MR. SPIDER’S KIN HAS BEEN GONE ALL THIS TIME.]

And afraid.

Knock-knock.

[ _KNOCK-KNOCK!_ A POUNDING THAT RATTLES THE ROOM, THE WHOLE HOUSE.]

( _Still child-friendly, but booming, thunderous._ ) Who is it, Mr. Spider?

MR. SPIDER

( _Distorted, hoarse screaming trying to be shouting._ ) ENOUGH OF THIS! ENOUGH, ENOUGH, ENOUGH! 

[HEAVY, FRANTIC SCURRYING, AS IF SEARCHING.]

THIS IS NOT POLITE, AND THIS IS NOT RIGHT! UNGRATEFUL, RUDE, PETULANT THING!

WE MADE YOU STRONG, JON! WE MADE YOU MORE! WE MADE YOU A GOD WHO COULD SIT AT OUR TABLE IN THE CHANGED WORLD!

THE ARCHIVE

( _Calm and close. Far too close._ ) I don’t like it.

MR. SPIDER

[VIOLENT WHIRL OF LIMBS.]

WHERE ARE YOU!?

THE ARCHIVE

Mr. All is right here, Mr. Spider. Holding your Book. He Knows All, and so Knows how to bind a Book like yours. Look up.

( _Brimming with static and gleeful, awful hate._ ) DO YOU SEE ME NOW, MR. SPIDER?

MR. SPIDER

[PAUSE AS MR. SPIDER SEES. AS MR. SPIDER REALIZES WHAT’S COMING.]

( _Small. Smaller than a thumbnail, than the pupil of an eye._ ) Mother—

[ABRUPT SLAM OF A BOOK CLAPPING SHUT. A STICKY, SQUELCHING SPLAT.]

THE ARCHIVE

[THE AMBIENT SOUNDS OF THE CHANGED WORLD ARE BACK.]

( _Inhale, exhale._ ) The end. 

GUESTS

( _Stunned, but coming out of it, everyone talking over each other._ )

GUEST 1

What—what the hell just happened, where is this—

GUEST 2

Oh Jesus, Abby, where are you, baby—

ABBY WELLER

I’m here! I’m okay, Mum. The man with the Eyes got us out.

GUEST 2

W- ( _Realizing, a solid brick of horror in her throat._ ) Oh my God. 

GUEST 1

Holy shit. 

[HESITANT FOOTSTEPS FROM MANY PARTIES, GENERAL FEARFUL MURMURS.]

Holy shit.

GUEST 2

[SLOW, CAREFUL STEPS.]

( _Shakily._ ) Abby? Abby, baby, step away from that. Come here…

ABBY WELLER

( _Lightly._ ) Mum, it’s okay. He killed the Spider with the hat. He was going to eat us, but he got squashed. ( _Turning aside._ ) Can I see?

THE ARCHIVE

Better you don’t. Mr. Williamston?

GUEST 1

Uh—

THE ARCHIVE

May I borrow your lighter? 

MR. WILLIAMSTON

I—s-sure. I guess. 

[FUMBLING CLOTH SOUNDS.]

You, uh, you keep it.

THE ARCHIVE

My condition isn’t catching. I just need to do this. Everyone stand back. You too, Abby.

[SEVERAL RETREATING FOOTSTEPS, THOUGH NOBODY RUNS. SOUND OF A LIGHTER FLICKING OPEN. SOMETHING BURNS. IT STARTS WITH A STANDARD PAPERY CRACKLE, THEN A DISTINCTLY MEATY SIZZLE. SOMETHING INSECTILE SQUEALS AND DIES.]

There. 

[LIGHTER FLICKS SHUT.]

You’re certain you don’t want this back?

MR. WILLIAMSTON

( _As if trying to sound out a math problem._ ) …What just happened? What actually just happened?

ABBY WELLER

Already said, he squashed the Spider. It was going to eat us. You guys don’t remember?

GUESTS

( _Uncertain murmurs._ )

GUEST 2

…Sir?

THE ARCHIVE

Yes, Ms. Weller?

MS. WELLER

( _Quiet, but heavy._ ) Thank you. 

THE ARCHIVE

…I can keep us all out of Sight until everyone gets back to where they were taken from. Provided everyone stays close. To those of you who came out to scavenge, do not trust any abandoned restaurant we pass. Every one of them is touched by the Flesh and rigged to do far worse than eat whoever walks in. Ms. Weller?

MS. WELLER

Yes?

THE ARCHIVE

Your home is closest. Only three blocks. We’ll start with you, if you like.

MS. WELLER

I—

ABBY WELLER

Okay!

[QUICK, LIGHT FOOTSTEPS.]

MS. WELLER

Abby! Don’t hang off i—don’t swing on him, you’re not five! I-I’m sorry—

THE ARCHIVE

It’s fine.

[ADULT AND CHILD FOOTSTEPS IN TANDEM. OTHERS JOIN IN, MIGRATING AMID MUTTERS AND TIRED, CONFUSED, CURIOUS WHISPERS.]

ABBY WELLER

So, are you?

THE ARCHIVE

Am I what?

ABBY WELLER

Mr. All. Like in the book? The picture didn’t look like you.

THE ARCHIVE

No, I suppose it didn’t. I’m making sure you can’t See all of me right now. It’s better that way—easier on the eyes.

ABBY WELLER

So, who are you then? Are you Mr. All? Or Mr. Eye?

THE ARCHIVE

( _Pause and a mutter._ )

ABBY WELLER

What?

THE ARCHIVE

I’m Jon. At least to my friends.

[CLICK.]


End file.
